There is a fine line between the hopeless romantic adventurer and the lie told in which to preserve the memory of what you set out to achieve; it is a line so thin that you cannot but help pity and remorse for those left behind to pick up the pieces of the notion and want of derring-do and you cannot help but feel the blur of admiration that strikes home, the sense of forlorn hope that cannot but be helped be seen as glorious failure and which makes the most interesting of stories.

To understand the present, you have to know what happened before, you have to know the story of how a person got to the position in life they inhabit on the day you met them, after that their life makes sense, it has significance.

There was nothing glamorous about the Krays, not in the strictest sense of the word and yet they held the East End of London in such a thrall that glamour took on a completely different meaning. It was physical allure of charm personified to an area of London that had been treated for too long as the personal plaything of the destructive and warped; so why should the Swinging Sixties be any different.

There will always be one story to come out of an Olympic Games that is ripe many years later to get a writer of quality excited and in turn the creative juices will bring about a script that is both touching and passionate and yet reveals the hidden anguish behind some of the great Olympians.